


Carpe Diem

by clare009



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clare009/pseuds/clare009
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape never quite forgot his first assistant, but now, after more than a decade, she contacts him out of the blue and asks him to tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Summer 2007 SS/HG Exchange. This is written for Losille2000, and her prompt: Severus and Hermione have been "friends" since the war. He's afraid of commitment, Hermione wants something more. Bittersweet.

There was a time when I would have refused outright. Tea? Not bloody likely. I'm not the type of person to sit around and gab about life and this or that over a pot of tea and some edibles. Or at least, not in the past. But now... I wasn't sure I had anything better to do – and it certainly couldn't ruin my current reputation, which had become that of a creepy old man who yelled at the neighbourhood thugs for playing god awful music or just generally ruining the scenery outside my window. Besides, I did like a decent cup of tea every now and then, especially on a rainy November day when the wind blew down from the North and brought to my nose the scent of the Scottish moors and Minerva’s plaid-covered parlour. It was the inane and useless chit-chat that inevitably one was called to participate in that bothered me.  
  
I remembered Minerva's parlour - which I suppose has long since been redecorated by whomever now holds the unfortunate position of Gryffindor Head of House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But, I can still clearly see in my mind's eye the stuffed tartan cushions and upright chairs and the old burnished teapot with its hand-knitted cosy sitting on the windowsill. I still remember the days when the clouds hung low about the castle turrets, pregnant with the promise of a white Yule, while the buzz and general mayhem of the school thrummed below and we, Minerva and I, would sit in stoic silence while we sipped at our rapidly cooling tea. God, how I missed those days, those Head of House meetings that were forced upon us by an overly meddlesome, yet beloved Headmaster, that only Gryffindor and Slytherin were required to attend. We sat through those meetings, holding up our heads and our pride as though our lives depended on it, Each of us refusing to give ground to the other for a full hour and a half, before we were able to set down our empty cups and release each other from our self-inflicted stalemate. The first few years after Minerva’s death, I longed to be able to revisit those times and tell her how truly I respected her. Now, I miss our old rivalry – and the finest cup of tea that was ever brewed outside of my own hearth.   
  
But this was different. This wasn't a forced meeting. I was going to my fate with all of my wits about me, at least as much as an old man like me could be expected to have. I was a willing participant in this ritual, not merely willing, but almost eager, in a curious way. I had felt something that morning when I opened the letter with my name written out so precisely on it, in a hand I would recognise without my reading lenses. I was a fool for being affected by a simple letter, and I could no more explain why I felt this way than I could explain the origins of magic. The letter had requested a meeting, nothing more, nothing less, between a man and his former employee. The writer of the letter, my former employee, had succinctly detailed how she was to be in the region in the next couple of days and wished to catch up with me about my life since we had last parted ways. It was a formal invitation to nothing more than polite conversation with a hint of pity between the lines. I couldn't pretend that it was any more than that. I didn't even know why I would want to think that it could possibly be more.   
  
I hadn't seen my first assistant in years – and since that time, I had not once had any reason to think about her besides the small snippets of information I may have inadvertently garnered about her life from the  _Prophet_  or other such publications. Her name had come up rather a number of times in the last ten or more years, but there had been no reason to dwell further upon her beyond that. Her invitation, and seeing the fresh ink that had so recently flowed from her hand, had surprised me, and my reaction to it disturbed me. How was it that this simple letter could pique my interest more than anything I had seen in print?   
  
At first, I considered simply putting the note aside, together with my curiosity, and letting the whole affair slide. But, I felt it rude not to at least reply, after all, she had been a good assistant - one of the best. In fact, I had never managed to find a decent replacement for her after she left. And then, thinking about it further, I decided that since I was retired and now devoted to nothing but myself, what reason could I have for not taking her up on her offer? After all, the project I was currently working on would not need my attention for the next few days at the stage it was in, and thus I had no pressing demands upon my time. I was also rather curious, I have to admit. She did her job as Headmaster’s assistant at Hogwarts better than anyone, a non-teaching position I created when I was called upon to be Headmaster of the school after the war. But, she could have applied herself to anything – even I have to grudgingly admit that - and her talents were somewhat wasted on me. From the information I did have, I knew that she had since thrown herself at the distasteful cause of Werewolf rights and succeeded at it alarmingly well. Why was she interested in a sorry old man, who lived alone and did nothing but tinker with potions, for no other reason than because he felt like it? If nothing else, I wanted to find out the answer to that question.   
  
So, I arrived at the at the Hotel where she had directed me to, the one where she was staying for some convention she was attending. It was a stately building in the middle of the town – the only elegant accommodations in the area and a place of respite for many a Muggle businessman. Apparently Wizards made use of their hospitality, too. I felt inferior immediately upon walking into the lobby, with it’s high, vaulted ceilings and fine carpet underfoot. I was not born to elegance and sophistication and would never be comfortable surrounded by such. This was more a place for a Malfoy than a Snape – a truth that Draco would have eagerly pointed out were he alive to do so. As it was, the ghost of Draco Malfoy haunted my dreams in that cold, dark place that sleep sometimes carried me to. Lately it was more often than not that I would wake up in a sweat with a vision of that white-blond hair stained crimson. What a useless sacrifice the boy had made. The time that I had spent with him before the final battle, when we were isolated together out of necessity rather than choice, had shown me what potential he had. Only he had gone and thrown it away out of some misguided sense of guilt and obligation. It was the only reason I was standing here, today.   
  
But, that was the past, the long and distant past, and what waited for me today was something else entirely.   
  
I asked a concierge to point me in the direction of the tearoom, which he did so with a curl of his lip that, with a few years of practise, could possibly match the expression I had been born with. I looked around the linen-covered tables as the diffuse sunlight of the late afternoon glowed through sheer drapes and tried to ignore the steadily increasing pounding of my heart.   
  
I spotted her a few tables down. I thought she might have changed with the years, but from my perspective, she looked as though nothing had touched her. She was seated very properly, with her back straight and her head up, turned to view the gardens from her vantage point by an open window. The sunlight touched her face and highlighted her nose and brow, giving her a golden aura. There was a bare trace of a smile on her lips, and then her hand went unconsciously to her hair to pull a strand back behind her ear. She shifted and the light went away, blotted out by the rain cloud that covered the sun. Her head turned and her eyes came to rest on mine.   
  
It was in that single instant when I realised how much of a fool I had been to come here - all the old feelings came rushing back. Her eyes danced at the sight of me, and my stomach clenched. My palms began to sweat, and I hurriedly hid my hands behind my back as I strode forward to meet her – the last thing I wanted was to look like a gaping idiot. I had forgotten how much her presence could disturb me.   
  
She stood in anticipation, and when I stopped before her and gave her a short nod of acknowledgement, she did the damnedest thing. Stepping forward, she reached up and lightly clasped my shoulders, then smiled brilliantly as she placed a kiss on my cheek.   
  
The kiss was over almost before it had begun, yet I could feel its warmth spread throughout my body.   
  
“Professor Snape,” she said, “it’s lovely to see you again.”   
  
My mouth and tongue moved without any direction from my brain, which was scrambling to process all the thoughts and emotions that had come flooding through a now wrecked and torn barrier - one that had been standing for most of my life. “Mrs Lupin,” I said, somewhat stupidly.   
  
She took her seat once again and her actions prompted me to follow suit. I sat down across from her and pulled my chair in. I was trying very hard to look at her while not looking at her. My mouth and features were cast in the same expressionless form they always naturally reverted to, and I believed I was safe – she had no inkling of the turmoil that had suddenly sprouted inside of me.   
  
Just when I thought awkward silence would permanently descend upon us, she said, “You're looking well, Professor. Retirement must suit you.”   
  
“Yes,” I said shortly. Where was all that wit and charm – or rather, sarcasm and disdain – I usually possessed? It was going to be a long afternoon. With my hands clasped together under the table where she couldn't see them, I began to hope we could get through this with the least amount of pain possible so that I could tuck my tail between my legs and run back to my sanctuary to lick my wounds. Then I could forget that I ever knew this woman and return to some semblance of normality.   
  
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said with a glint in her eyes that brought back unwanted memories, “but I took the liberty of ordering before you arrived. I've yet to eat anything all day, and I’m starved.”   
  
“You don’t look starved,” was all I could come up with. It was only after I saw her raised eyebrow that I realised I had just insulted her.  
  
She laughed easily, though, taking the unintentional barb as a joke. “It’s harder to avoid the good things in life as you get older – at least for me, it is. You, on the other hand, look like you need Molly Weasley to feed you a good meal. But then again, you always did.”   
  
At that, I snorted. “Molly Weasley was never the best cook. She knew how to make it in bulk, but she never had the knack for delicate seasoning.”   
  
She grinned. “Another mystery solved.”   
  
“What are you talking about?”   
  
“Merely that I had always wondered why, in those years that lead up to the war, whenever there was an Order meeting, you never stuck around afterwards to be fed by Mrs Weasley.”   
  
“The elves at Hogwarts come better recommended as chefs in my opinion.” I allowed a small, tight smile. Somehow, we had almost managed to slip into the comfortable banter that was our custom when we used to work together.   
  
“That, and you weren't particularly welcome to stay, were you?” She narrowed her eyes as she looked at me, the tone of her voice changing from light to earnest in an instant.   
  
I lost the smile I had and glanced down at the white tablecloth.   
  
“It always made me angry, you know, that they took you for granted like that,” she said.   
  
“I never needed nor wanted your pity,” I said quietly, refusing to look at her for fear of any kind of recrimination or hurt in her eyes. Once, I had been eager to provoke that kind of emotion in her, but now, I didn't think I could bear it.   
  
“Yes,” she said, steel and a hint of humour in her voice, “you told me often enough - I have not forgotten it.”   
  
I looked up and saw her reach her hand across the table. I flinched. She drew back, then shook her head. “For goodness sake, Snape, isn't it about time you stopped being so prickly? The whole world is not out to get you, you know.”   
  
I snorted. “That’s what you think.”   
  
It just so happened that a young serving girl arrived at precisely the right time to disturb our stilted conversation. She placed a silver tea tray and a plate heaped with fresh scones on the side of our table. She had a pretty smile for the woman across from me, yet failed to even glance in my direction. I was used to such treatment - most Muggles were disgusted by my ill-favoured look yet too spineless to say anything about it; others were more foolish and did not hold their tongues. Age had not improved me like a fine wine - any charms I may have once possessed had turned to vinegar. Mostly it was children who so thoughtlessly spewed whatever thought inhabited the tops of their brains as they tugged at their mother's skirts when I walked by. I was used to such treatment, but still, I did not venture out all that often. Today was an exception I believed I would regret.   
  
After the serving girl left, my partner took no time in helping herself to one of the scones with an added benefit of a large dollop of clotted cream and strawberry jam. I decided to refrain.   
  
"I thought you had given up on sugar," I said somewhat sourly, remembering a time when we had debated about such a thing.   
  
She grinned as she took a large bite out of the scone and then licked her lips like a child at the traces of cream and jam that remained. "I was young and foolish, once. Now that I'm old and wise, I find that I can tolerate a moderation of sweets for the sake of my sanity."   
  
"If you're saying that you've only recently figured out that sugar is a good way to sway your mood, then I could have told you that years ago."   
  
"Is that why you always kept those tempting treats hidden away in your office?"   
  
I sighed dramatically. "You've found me out."   
  
Her laughter filled the air like a charm and made my lips twitch. "And here I thought it was some kind of homage to Albus Dumbledore."   
  
"I was taught more about duplicity from Albus Dumbledore than from anyone else." I reached for the silver appointed teapot in order to distract myself from the woman in front of me. "Would you like some tea? Although, no doubt, your palette has been ruined by all that sugar."   
  
"Please," she said. "With milk."   
  
I ventured a brief look at her before I returned to the task at hand. For God's sake, I was practically being coy. I arranged the porcelain cups in their saucers, then measured a portion of the milk into the cup in front of her. Mine, I left empty - I always preferred my tea black and bitter. Then, I placed the strainer over one cup and made sure to give the contents of the pot one last swirl before letting the tea stream golden brown into the cup. I repeated the same procedure with the second cup, then set the teapot down. With a nudge of my fingers, I pushed her cup towards her.   
  
"Thank you," she said. "You always were very deliberate. It reminds me of when I used to watch you brew - your movements were measured and meticulous, like a dance." Her eyes were downcast as she spoke, and she stared openly at my hand that rested on the white tablecloth - it was almost pale enough to blend in with the material. I resisted the urge to snatch it away from her scrutiny. "Do you still make potions?"   
  
"I dabble," I said. "Here and there. Nothing of consequence."   
  
Her smile grew broad, and she raised her eyes to meet mine. "Yes, I'm sure nothing of consequence." She picked up her cup and put it to her lips, taking a long sip from it. "I miss our discussions - the ones about potions and magic and all that other stuff. I can't remember half of what we talked about, but it must have been important to keep us up until the fires burned low."   
  
I hesitated. To dig up those memories now - things that I had forgotten, but now suddenly remembered as her voice seemed to unlock the vault that I never knew was there - was something I wasn't ready to deal with. I began, unwillingly, to understand the reasons behind my strange reactions to this woman in front of me today. "They were... entertaining," I said, shifting on my chair. A vision of soft, brown hair caught in the glow of firelight brushed across my mind. Another vision, one of a teasing smile and eyes that glinted with intelligence, matched the reality in front of me. Only, the face was a little narrower and soft lines had appeared to accentuate the full mouth. Apart from my mother, she was still the only woman I had ever thought was beautiful.   
  
She waited a beat, then blurted, "We were friends, then, weren't we? I mean, after the war - and even though you were my employer, so to speak..." Her bottom lip was being squeezed between her teeth by the time she finished. It was not a habit one would associate with a woman in her late thirties.   
  
"The school Governors were your employer. I was your boss. It wasn't appropriate." I gave her as stern a look as I could muster, which must not have been much, for she didn't even flinch. She reached her hand across the table until her fingers were mere inches from mine.   
  
"But we were friends," she said, leaning forward. "We spent more time with each other than with anyone else."   
  
"There was work to be done. You were my assistant. I couldn't take on the job of teaching Potions as well as the position of Headmaster without help. The school had to be rebuilt almost from the ground up."   
  
"But you can't deny..."   
  
"I'm not denying, Mrs Lupin, merely stating..."   
  
She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at me - clearly, I had displeased her. "I've been thinking, lately, about changing my name back to Granger. It's what I go by professionally anyway."   
  
My eyebrow shot up with involuntary surprise. I kept my silence, although a world of curiosity had burst inside of me.   
  
She waited a moment, gauging my reaction before she continued, "My husband and I have been separated these last several months, you see, and my marriage is bound to end up in divorce."   
  
She did not sound particularly disturbed by the matter, only somewhat regretful.   
  
"What... ah... prompted your separation?" I was uncomfortable in this role of councillor.   
  
She turned to look out the window across the grass that lead up to the river. "A realisation, I suppose - one that we came to mutually. When we were first married, it was under false pretences. I saw him as my cause; after the war I desperately needed something to fight for. Or so I thought."   
  
"And he... did not love you?"   
  
"He cared for me, but I'm not quite sure it's the same thing. I filled a void for him - or tried to, at least. After our daughter was born, I think we both knew then that our marriage was a sham."   
  
"I saw the announcement in the  _Prophet_." I spoke without thinking. I didn't want it to sound as if I had been stalking her for the last several years.   
  
The woman across from me smiled, the first true smile I'd seen today - and it was completely unconscious. "Charmian Abigail Lupin. She will be attending Hogwarts for the first time this September. Something that would never have been possible if it wasn't for you." Her focus had returned to me, and I chafed under it. "I read, also in the  _Prophet_ , that it was your last act as Headmaster to force the Governors to rescind the law prohibiting Werewolves and their offspring from the school. Why, after all that time? You were so adamant..."   
  
I was at a loss for words. How could I explain to her that my actions had been inexplicable even to myself. I had seen the changes she had wrought across the wizarding world, all for the benefit of her sorry excuse for a husband, and I had realised that quite possibly I was the one who had precipitated the whirlwind. That time in my office stood out so clearly, when we had hurled bitter words at each other. Things I had never meant to say or wanted her to hear coming from my lips, I had spat with venom. I had been firm that I would not, under any circumstances, allow a werewolf to work on my staff, regardless of how desperate we were to fill the position, regardless of how qualified he was for the position. I had not been able to see past my own personal hatred, and I had used the rules to justify myself and to belittle her.   
  
I remember how she had left not three days later - ran straight into his arms, I'm sure. I remembered feeling bitter and hollow, like I had lost something I'd never had to begin with. It was a wretched thing to live with that elusive sense for over a decade until I found myself now, once again, face to face with her. I swallowed and tried to speak. "I suppose, it was my way of telling you I was sorry."   
  
She frowned a little and I could see the cogs of her brain whirring inside her head. "Go on..."   
  
I couldn't stop myself from speaking the truth any more than I could stop the tide. It was as if all my logic and reason and pride had been shoved aside, and although I had no reasonable understanding for this thing inside me, the words tumbled from my lips as if spoken by another. "I know I can't take back what was said or done in the past. God knows, I tried to atone for it, but it took me years to reach that point - and even then, I did not want to admit that I was wrong. I thought it could be the single altruistic act of my life." I turned my head away from her to avoid the burning look in her eyes. "But really, I had hoped that through that one act, you might possibly forgive me all my other sins."   
  
I felt gentle fingers laid over mine and shivered. "I cannot forgive you, Severus Snape," she said. The black knife that she plunged into my heart was really no more than what I deserved. Guilt and hopelessness were not new to me, unlike some of the other emotions I had experienced today. "Nor do I need to," she said. "You have done more good than wrong, and if you were measured on the scales today, I'm sure they would tip in your favour. But I can only judge my own self, and I know that I share, in equal parts, the blame for this ugly thing that lies between us."   
  
My head shot up, and I sucked in air like a half-drowned man. "That is not true, you have done nothing wrong."   
  
She laughed a bitter laugh, and suddenly I could see that she was older. This lady had far more experience with the reality of life than the one I had known. "I ran away. Me, the proud, obnoxious even, Gryffindor, ran away like a coward because I did not have the strength of character to stand up to you and fight for what I wanted."   
  
"But you did fight - you've won battles over and over to make your dreams a reality. Werewolves are now an accepted part of wizarding society, because of your courage to take on the system."   
  
She laughed again, this time her tone was verging on hysteria. Her hand took hold of my wrist and gently turned it so that my palm was face up. "You still don't see, do you?" she said softly. She placed her palm on top of mine and closed her fingers around it. I stared at her hand wrapped around mine as if it were some alien object. "I ran away from you." Her tone was cautious, almost shy. "It was you that I wanted, but I did not have the courage to go down that road, any more than you ever had the courage to admit what you felt for me."   
  
My hand twitched in her palm. The dark feelings had been replaced now by something else entirely, and I felt buoyed up. Air rushed through my veins, and as I looked at her, I saw how vulnerable she had made herself to me. I knew that with one word I could flay her, send her bleeding back to where she had come from. The temptation was there, stronger than I would like to admit, to shut her down, point out the absurdity of what she spoke of, and leave here to continue with my grey existence. But I was too old to want to live like that any further. For the first time in my life, I wanted something more than that. I was not bound by oaths or rules or honour. Neither the fate of the world nor the life of a school was hanging on the choices I made. "I don't think I really knew myself, how I felt about you, Hermione. At least, I could barely formulate the idea let alone put it into words. For some reason, today I have more clarity than I've ever had in the last fifty-six years of my life." I closed my hand around hers and felt the fluttering of her pulse in her wrist. "Please, for God's sake, tell me that I'm not an old fool who has done too little too late?"   
  
The smile that lit up her face was miraculous to me. Her eyes glistened. "It's never too late, honestly."   
  
Later, that evening when the rain clouds had drifted away for good and the moon reigned brightly overhead, we ventured down to the river to walk, still hand in hand, alongside it. The ducks had long since wandered off, and there were no passersby to take note of us, so insignificant we were in the grand scheme of things. But, today, something that had been out of place for so long had been set to rights. Her hand felt natural, nestled up inside of mine, and as she spoke about her life and her daughter to me, I felt an ease settle around me. She turned to me and said, "You know, my grandmother, who was a very wise woman, once told me that it is up to us to make the best of what remains of the day."   
  
"This day," I said, pulling her into my embrace, "and all the ones thereafter." 

**Author's Note:**

> The words of wisdom from Hermione's grandmother are paraphrased from and a nod to, 'Remains of the Day' by Kazuo Ishiguro.


End file.
